My Dearest Russell
by MeGoobie
Summary: This collection focuses on the development of the Holmes and Russell relationship, especially during BEEK and MREG. They are a bit fluffy, but the serious will enjoy them as well.Recently chronologically organized! Be sure to search for the new stories!
1. Woman

**A/N: **I have recently rearranged the chapters of this collection in chronological order. So, you may have to search for stories that you haven't read yet! Also, to those who have just encountered this story, please note that the stories that are less than wonderful were written earlier.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor Mary Russell. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Laurie R. King.

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**Woman**

The boy is but a child; his spectacles are nonchalantly tilted upon his upturned nose and he holds a book by Virgil in his remarkably feminine hands. I am intrigued. We will be sure to collide as he evidentially does not believe in road impediments.

"What on earth are you doing? Lying in wait for someone?" he asks, eying me as if I were particularly unsavory meat. He seems to discount the belief that elders should be treated with respect; I fancy this child much more than I am comfortable with.

And then, he removes his cap. _God, a woman. _


	2. Dagger

**Dagger**

"What are you reading, Russell?"

I looked up from the famous scene of Elizabethan tragedy, thoroughly annoyed by both my graying interruption and the foolishness of adolescent infatuation; I was never a considerably giggly fifteen-year-old. My spectacles slid off of my face with my sudden movement, adding to my exceptionally good humor, and I thrust them back into place. My hair was disheveled and my eyes were fuming with unwarranted fury.

"Really, Holmes, can you believe this ineffable twaddle? It's preposterous that a perfectly good woman impales herself in the name of an indecisive, shallow, melodramatic, and amazingly stupid child!" I bit off the last word to emphasize my distaste had it not been made clearly evident by its proceeding sentences or by the state of my complexion.

"Romeo and Juliet, I assume?" Holmes's sardonic expression remained unchanged by my outburst; I noticed that he took on such a demeanor whenever I was particularly passionate. The man could be positively infuriating and he knew it.

"What else, Holmes?" I slapped the play upon the dark green armchair next to me and began to pace the room in manner much like that of my mentor; I abruptly stopped with the realization and sat back onto the chair I had previously occupied.

Sherlock Holmes allowed silence to creep into the sitting room before speaking in his high, educated, and Victorian, middle class drawl. "And why, may I ask, are you reading such 'ineffable twaddle' if it so infuriates you? I highly suggest that book over there as it is less likely to cause premature heart-attacks." Holmes' long, thin finger pointed to a decidedly dull chemistry textbook lying open upon his oak writing desk.

"It is, however, quite likely to cause premature death through boredom," I mumbled.

"How very unlike you, my dearest Russell, to show such animosity for the sciences and to misjudge my hearing abilities. I am not quite so senile. Tut, tut!"

I quirked an eyebrow at him as my anger began to diminish and logic took the place of heated argumentation. "Do you not agree with my evaluation of the story, Holmes? I always knew you were a hopeless romantic at heart."

"You are most amusing and have a remarkable talent for avoiding intrusive questions." A smirk tugged at the right side of his clean-shaven mouth.

"I can hardly see how the reading of 'Romeo and Juliet' is a private matter, Holmes," I objected, wondering why on earth he would suggest such a thing.

"My point has been proven, Russell. I, however, shall answer your question despite your hesitation to answer my purely innocent inquiry. I do agree with your assessment of Romeo; I should think he deserves a good tossing about." How shocking, I amusedly thought. "You dismiss, however, Juliet's own faults in the doomed relationship."

"She did stab herself, Holmes! That is more than I can say for that cowardly imbecile!"

"That is completely beside the point, Russell. As I was saying: Juliet was also of a simple-minded disposition. I would say that they are, in fact, a very well-suited couple. One should always choose within one's intelligence in order to maintain a balanced relationship through interesting conversation; I suppose that is why I have retained my bachelor status…" He trailed off and stared through the yellow smoke billowing from the cherry-wood pipe between his delicate fingers. I felt distinctly uncomfortable by such maudlin sentiments from my normally cold mentor who was no more aware of romance than of the arrangement of the solar system. And here I was, Mary Russell, receiving marital advice from the nearly sixty-year-old legend of Baker Street.

And then, I heard whispered words that made me feel even more like an intruder of a diary accidentally left unlocked.

"'O, happy dagger… never again shall you tempt me."


	3. Icon

**Icon**

I began to uncontrollably giggle at him. I generally felt compelled to tickle him or to attempt some other childish rubbish every time he said it. And who could blame me? The man was absolutely fictional.

"What, my dear Russell, is so terribly amusing that you must emit such attractive snorting noises? Russell! For God's sake, attempt to control yourself for the sake of my tea!" Holmes unhappily slid his tea cup away from me to avoid spilling it and took up his newspaper once again; I managed to regain my composure.

"I swear, Holmes, every time you say 'elementary,' I feel like I am in one of Uncle John's stories. I mean, look at you! The Victorian armchair, the pipe... all you need is a bloody deerstalker and you will be the great Sherlock Holmes!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. "'My God, it has a brain!' Really, can I be blamed for acting like myself? It is not my fault that Watson has turned me into some sort of icon."

Holmes looked out the window and thoughtfully puffed his pipe. I could tell that he missed Watson but avoided saying anything to that effect.

"You know, I never did own a deerstalker. Thanks to that Paget fellow, I am being mocked by a sixteen-year-old in my own home. Now, put your young energy to better use and go buy me some tobacco."

I would do nothing of the sort.

"I will do nothing of the sort, Holmes. You buy your own tobacco. What am I, your housemaid? If you are judging me on the basis of gender..."

"Russell," Holmes chided, still looking rather pensive, "I am not judging you and if I were, I would judge you based on your respect for your elders. Now, about the tobacco..."

"Fine then!" I said, pulling on my boots. "If I am to buy you your cancerous muck, you must agree to buy me a deerstalker."

"Very humorous, Russell," Holmes said, revealing his perfect teeth to me. It was a mystery to me how on earth his teeth could be so white considering all of the tea, coffee, and tobacco he consumed.


	4. Chase

**Chase**

I hoarsely coughed into the London night and groped for words through the darkness ; I decided that this must be how a drowning person feels. My inaudible cries were not heard by Holmes, whose lean legs churned him further and further away from me and beyond the fog. I made a mental note not to chase him again.

It was not as if the man knew I was after him. He could not be blamed for being inconsiderate, although he certainly could and would be if it meant successfully foiling a blackmail, capturing a murderer, or playing his violin. Indeed, Holmes was on the case and I, out of pure curiosity, decided to follow him.

The dark silhouette of Holmes rounded the corner of a building and when I went to round the same building, the pursuer and pursued were no where to be found. I cursed my lack of knowledge concerning London and decided to trace my way back to the bolt hole from which I emerged... only to find myself utterly and embarrassingly lost in an area full of rather unfriendly people.

"'Ello, me lady. What is a pretty girl like 'ou doin' out a' thi' time o' the night?"

Shoot... I was not in my male attire but, rather, in a terribly feminine ensemble packed by the one and only Mrs. Hudson. I had no time to change before I left after Holmes; I suddenly wished I had made the time. I stopped in my tracks and looked around to find a tall man in a top hat and suit staring down at me with a ridiculous grin upon his face. "'Ello, Russell! Now, would you care to explain why on earth you decided to follow me on a night like this?"

"Holmes! I swear, you will be the end of me!" Holmes was always the dramatic. "I wanted to ask you the very same question but, seeing as you ran out of the room without the goodness to tell me what your business was, I decided to follow you."

"And to get lost despite your training."

"No, I was simply catching my breath, thank you very much! You haven't answered my question, Holmes." I said, becoming considerably aggravated.

"Neither have you, Russell." His smile faded and his grey eyes darkened. "You could have been killed."

"And it would have been my choice to be killed. You will not control me, Holmes, so do not even try."

"I was not attempting to control you. I will, though, if you continue to purposefully endanger yourself for the sake of... for the sake of what?"

"I followed you on a whim. And, I was in no danger. I fully capable of defending myself."

"A whim, eh? Merely a whim? You hardly expect me to believe that, now do you?"

"I was also concerned about your welfare... I mean, your rheumatism has been acting up lately. I was worried."

Holmes looked at me intently before speaking measured words. "Russell, do not worry about me. If you as concerned about my welfare as you proclaim to be, do not follow me and risk getting yourself stabbed, shot, or mortally wounded."

"Sorry, Holmes. I cannot do that." I sighed and decided to change the subject. "Who were you chasing anyway?"

Holmes eyed me and let me know that he had bot been fooled, but obliged. My mentor and I talked on the way home about his case, the unresolved argument saved for another time.


	5. Storm

**Storm**

**Russell**

I woke up to find that my pillow was breathing; I jumped up with considerable consternation, fled to the other side of the sofa, and stared at the former pillow with a terror more suited for an armed robber than for an unconscious tutor. _My god, what have I done? Is he...? Did we...? _I furiously scratched my head and searched the sofa for my spectacles; I could not find them and retreated to the guest room to figure out just what I had forgotten.

I was not sure just why I had become so concerned; we had simply fallen asleep while talking about the properties of hemoglobin. _How late was it, then? _A thought came to me that reheated my cheeks. _Had Mrs. Hudson seen...? _

"Mrs. Hudson?" I called; there was no answer and I remembered hearing thunder in the night. Her visit to her sister's house must have been extended.

I sighed in relief and fell back to sleep on my unmoving pillow; I dare not say who occupied my dreams.

**Holmes**

Her words have become incomprehensible. She mutters something about chocolate and I give up my lecture. The child needs sleep and... _her head is on my shoulder. _I am at the point of waking her and sending her to the guest room when she awakens slightly and unconsciously puts her arm around me.

_No use in waking the child, now, _I think, closing my eyes. _A storm is brewing. _


	6. Diary

**Diary**

"Russell?"

"Mmm...?" My eyes were focused upon the brownish stain upon the worn leather and desperately tried to pick out the tiny fragments of stone therein. _Was he then in... London?_

"Russell, while this quite amusing, I really must proceed through this door. You may have noticed the raindrops that are currently pervading my overcoat and drenching the top of your scalp." _Whatever was he doing in London? _My mind churned and attempted to remember all of the details of his appearance earlier than morning. _Holding a... photograph, was it? It was certainly of that shape and size. There was a sheen to it, also. His coat was bulging. Why would it be...? He was bleary-eyed and... was that agitation I had seen at the corner of his mouth?_

"Russell, for God's sake!" The leather plowed through the door and knocked me to one side before settling themselves in front of a kitchen chair. They then removed themselves from their owner and settled in front of my nose. I disapprovingly peered up at the pile of limbs and water that were Holmes.

"I was trying to ascertain your prior location," I said as if to excuse my odd behavior. His eyebrows went up in surprise and then the chair began to shake with his booming laughter. I ignored him and went back to the boots.

"Russell, you are really the most interesting of creatures. Could you not have examined the knees of my trousers or the right sleeve of my jacket?" Holmes warmly smiled down at me and I could not help but chuckle with him.

"I suppose I could have, Holmes, but my eyes are not as keen as yours. Not yet, anyway." I devilishly grinned at my companion who was currently peeling away layers of the storm brewing outside. His warm smile had changed to an expression of disapproval. "I needed a closer look at the mud upon your boots. Also, you were wearing an overcoat that I highly doubt was upon your person for the entirety of your visit with Mycroft. I wonder, Holmes, why you decided to take him the Irene Adler photograph previously stowed in you upper dresser drawer. I hardly doubt you traveled through this drudge for the sole purpose of lending 'the woman' to him."

I had not meant for my last comment to be offensive and was surprised to find a fire roaring within those normally cool, grey irises that momentarily frightened me; I remained resolute in expression and equipped in my inferior position upon the floorboards. "Firstly, Russell, you ought to know your soils by this time. London streets have a very particular color to them and you should have immediately know my location. Secondly, I see no reason why you could not have waited five minutes for your examination. It is not as if I have been gone for four months and you had been locked within this cottage without nourishment. Thirdly, did you really expect that I would not find the light scratches on the inner rim of the keyhole of my dresser? You have time and again tempted me to take away those blasted pick-locks. And, fourthly, that is the very reason for my visit to Mycroft. You are becoming too inquisitive as to my past and I left a few things to my brother's safe-keeping. Are you satisfied?"

I was not. Oh, he had explained everything quite well, but I felt a bit hurt by his reluctance to trust me with his past. It was not as if I deserved such a privilege, true, as I myself was not to be trusted. I had opened the man's upper drawer in an outburst of sheer curiosity and had regretted my actions immediately after I found the booklet filled with his sharp handwriting. I finally sighed and said, "Sorry, Holmes."

He said nothing in the most accusing way possible and walked over to the fireplace in order to warm the house. I expected that he wanted me to continue. "I really am very sorry. I... I was simply curious, Holmes. You never talk of your past. I did not expect to find anything of great importance."

"You found something that you considered important, then?" The fire was now blazing with fury and he stared into it without blinking.

"Well, I did find a book. I only read a few sentences before realizing..." _Why, why did my mouth betray me so?_ I bit down on my lip in an attempt to stop the words from escaping. Holmes would find out the truth in the end, though, and I was simply prolonging the inevitable.

"You did not read it, then?" His voice rung out in a quick and nervous exclamation and I pathetically nodded in response.

"That is fortunate, Russell. That is very fortunate. I suggest that you leave before I say something that I will later regret and that you learn to leave less obvious tracks in the future. Please do not practice on the drawers of my rooms, however. You have no business 'investigating' my private life. That is all. Please leave."

Guilt is the worst of all emotions but the loss of trust is worse yet.


	7. Imagination

**Imagination**

Russell is a most illuminating companion. I do not go so far as to say that she is my equal; time has wizened me in ways that I am not likely to admit. I believe, however, that she shall greatly excel with tremendous exertion on her part and molding on mine. Who knows? Perhaps this young female shall surpass me yet. Ah, yes, Russell is a very entertaining companion.

She sits on the sofa now with her head tilted to one side so as to read the opposite page of a theological manuscript filled with romantic rubbish and human disillusionment. Her slender eyebrow is raised as if in question of the one of the author's theories; I would ask her opinion of the man if it were not for the inevitability of mockery followed by lecture. Instead, I sit, watch the girl's blonde plaits fall across her shoulders and a wisp of hair move with the rhythm of her breath, and think of some experiment or another to end this disconcerting silence.

There are downfalls to imagination, you see.


	8. Birthday

**Birthday**

"Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson knitted her brows and scowled at my tutor, who was reclining in his chair with the most disinterested look purposefully plastered upon his features. "You cannot expect to sit through the entire evening and pretend you're half asleep!" I noted the use of the word "pretend" and allowed my grimace to transform into an amused smirk.

The long limbs shifted and pushed their body into a more upright position in the kitchen chair; the hands left the edge of the table and forced their fingertips together in a fashion that would have had Watson searching his desk for a pen. My tutor sighed in mock boredom and stretched his lean, elegantly-clad legs toward his former landlady. "My dear Mrs. Hudson, I have time and again expressed my distaste for dancing or, in your case, frolicking about without a care for the rhythm of the music. Russell, I am sure, feels the same way and would rather we move to the sitting room to pursue some other form of merriment." I denied the truthful words with an unconvincing shake of the head and glared at Holmes's impertinent rudeness. The occasion was, after all, my seventeenth birthday and, though I hardly expected the man to don a party hat and sing me congratulations, I did expect Holmes to try to be sociable. He was uncharacteristically withdrawn; something immediate was weighing upon his mind and I intended to find out what it was.

"Holmes?" I asked in a stern voice.

"Russell?" he replied, turning his head slightly in my direction before walking to retrieve his tobacco upon the hearth.

"Dance with me, for God's sake. You have upset Mrs. Hudson more than usual; I believe she is making another batch of scones despite the fact that she is out of butter. Do not make me eat such vile specimens or you will not see another year of your life."

"I do believe, Russell," Holmes said, clenching his pipe between his pristine teeth and looking down into its temporarily empty bowl, "that is the most interesting invitation to dance that I have ever experienced. I have always admired your ability to deliver such clever, back-handed compliments."

"My invitation to dance is in no way a compliment, Holmes, as you are the only other person present. Watson has been sleeping for the past couple of hours in the green armchair and you have driven Mrs. Hudson from youthful energy to culinary disaster. And, by God, did you just imply that you have been asked to dance before?"

He made no reply to this and stood up with cat-like grace to set the needle upon a record. An unfamiliar violin sonata filled the room with a deceiving lightness.

"Holmes, is this Mozart?"

"Indeed, Russell. Your musical knowledge is truly atrocious; this is Piano Sonata No. 26 in B flat major. It is a classic." His right hand took up mine with unexpected gentleness as his left arm deftly wrapped around my lower back; my breathing suddenly became disconcertingly shallow.

_Damn_.

"It is also not my first choice of music suited for dancing. And, yes, I really ought to fill my head with such important information, Holmes. I would not want cancerous muck like theology sifting into my 'attic' and taking its place." _Was it simply a misguided impression, or did Holmes just draw me closer?_

"Touche, Russell. Touche. It must be said, however, that an appreciation of music has certain advantages." My insides quaked. _What sort of "advantages"? _"It has the uncanny ability to distract the mind and make clear what has been previously obscured by either conscious or subconscious resistance."

"And, what, may I ask, would make your mind resist the truth?" I asked in a voice not quite as steady as I had hoped it to be.

"The truth can be difficult to accept, my dearest Russell." The grey irises pinned me in a searching gaze that I neither wanted to encounter nor to turn away. I stupidly stared back at my tutor, unaware that my feet were planted on the ground, that Uncle John was wide awake in the chair next to me, and that I was nothing more than a fortunate terrier in the company of a bear.

"Happy birthday," whispered a voice before a considerably flustered housekeeper burst into the space accompanied by the noxious smell of burnt cherry scones.

I never did ask Holmes what was on his mind; there was no longer a need.


	9. Simplicity

**Simplicity**

I remembered the sky from those early days; the sky, the feeling produced from his quiet, proud nods, and the smell of the strange amount of dust that dutifully gathered in our chess set every time we opened it for battle. I touch those days with my heart as one might touch an old photograph with one's fingers whenever life seems much too large for one to hold with both arms. It is a silly comfort, simplicity, as it in the eye of its beholder; the young and the old both experience complexity in its various stages.

"Russell, you're not paying attention."I looked up, suddenly aware that my mentor was many steps ahead of me; how I could not keep up with the man at the age of eighteen, I will never know.

"Oh, right. Sorry, Holmes." I glanced back down at the rock I had been kicking for the last ten minutes and proceeded to stumble over it. _Curse my traitorous feet._

The dark brown shoes in front of me paused and I directed my gaze back up to the steely eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "You've changed," he said rather quickly. I dubiously quirked an eyebrow at him; of course I had changed.

"I hear that happens when one grows up."

"Russell, one should never grow up. One should always continue as one always has in manner. Wisdom simply polishes this manner; knowledge simply educates it."

I was much surprised by these maudlin sentiments by the man whom I had previously known to consider the attributes of hemoglobin and various violent acts of passion to be the closest links to the human heart. I sighed and picked a spot in the Sussex countryside to become my own. Holmes sat next to me, trying desperately to disguise how badly he needed a break from the hours of exercise, and turned with his infamously pensive stare locked upon my face. I readied myself for an unlovely conversation. "Holmes, how have I changed, then? I certainly have not attempted to do so. Really, Holmes, you ought to know by now that I care not a bit for what others think of me. I'm wearing bloody men's clothing, for God's sake!"

"No, no," Holmes chided, focusing all of his attention on a leave of grass. I assumed the man was uncomfortable. "You have not changed in that way. You... you have grown."

"Very unfortunately for my shoes, I might add." I smiled and looked up at the gaunt, graying man before me and realized the mortality of the seemingly immortal. The smile faded a bit.

"You have matured, Russell. Ah, yes, I suppose that is the word I was looking for. I am in no way offering to buy you a pair of shoes. Anyway, you make too much of a simple comment, Russell. Really, you make me feel like the romantic buffoon that I am in Watson's stories."

I picked a dandelion from the dirt. "'What a lovely thing a rose is!'" I devilishly cried, jumping up from the ground into a theatrical pose and attempting to lighten the mood.

"'Cut out the poetry,' Russell." Holmes grinned back with his perfect teeth. "I do believe I was a bit misguided in my assessment of your maturity."

"Ah, even the great detective falls short of his expectations." I pocketed the weed and we walked back to the cottage in more sweet than bitter company and in simple and mutual acceptance.


	10. Welcome

**Welcome**

The smell of tobacco literally stopped me in my tracks. Holmes was obviously involved in a very pretty problem.

"Holmes, you know that you really ought not to smoke so much. The worth of four hours of cigarettes cannot be beneficial..."

I had hardly time to finish before my mentor rushed into the kitchen and embraced me with a strength one would not expect from a man of his age. I stood there dumbfounded, paralysed, and increasingly disconcerted. "Holmes..."

"Russell! It is good to see you!" Holmes said with gleaming eyes, finally releasing me from his tight grip. I wondered for a moment if my teacher had confused his chemicals and created a mind-altering concoction. This thought dissipated rather quickly with the realisation that Holmes never mixed up his chemicals. Perhaps he was testing me somehow, but I could hardly imagine why.

"It is good to see you, too! Oxford has been particularly gruelling as of late and I needed a break from my studies. Are you on the case, Holmes?" I asked. I suspected his unusually good humour was the result of a challenge and not the lanky, dishevelled girl in men's clothing that stood before him... although I hoped that this was the case.

"You could say so," he replied, eyeing me with amusement.

I was quite worried.


	11. Perfect

**Perfect**

"Oh, Mary, it is so good to have you home once again. You cannot imagine how intolerable Mr. Holmes has been in your absence! He spent all day shuffling about his laboratory and yelling at the beakers!"

"I can only imagine, Mrs. Hudson." I smirked at the thought of Holmes chastising inanimate objects and picked a tea cup from the cupboard above her head. She shook her head as she continued to prepare sandwiches; our height difference was an ongoing joke.

"Would you grab two more, dear? Thank you. So, Mary, do tell me about your time away. Did you meet any friends?"

My mind turned back to Shakespeare and drinking songs at rugby tournaments. "Ah... well, I had some rather interesting adventures with a certain friend named Ronnie."

A round, incredulous face looked up at me. "Why, you never told me you met someone! I do hope he was the perfect gentleman and that these 'adventures' were not..."

"Mrs. Hudson! Ronnie is short for Veronica! I met her in my lodgings when she offered... well, forced... a part for me in a play."

"Oh, I am sorry, dear. I did not mean to suggest..." She blushed and busied herself with cutting the crusts of the tiny, edible rectangles. "Well, that is very nice." A few more moments of guilty silence passed before I spoke up once again.

"But, I did meet a man. His name was Victor. Even you would have approved, Mrs. Hudson. He was quite the gentleman." I smiled and wondered what I ever saw in the man. "We grew apart, I am afraid. We were not enough alike and, though he was intelligent enough, I found him to be rather... well, rather boring."

"I see. I am sorry to hear that." She paused for a moment before continuing. "Mary, it is none of my business, but I must ask: What sort of man are you looking for?"

I was quite surprised by her question and turned with my hands upon my hips. She looked bashful and a bit devious; that woman had something on her mind. I indulged her, though, as mothers must know such things. "Well, as I said, I would want someone intelligent. We must be able to carry a conversation, you know. He must be hard-working, moral, logical, passionate, devoted, open, and loving." I quirked an eyebrow at the little lady. She looked a bit shattered and I could not imagine why. The subject was hardly serious.

"Well, that is very good, dear. But, I am afraid you'll have a bit of a time finding such a man. Determined, intelligent men are often less than loving. Mr. Holmes is a good example of this." _Holmes? What did Holmes have to do with anything? _"But, then again, the man spends all his time helping people, I suppose..."

"Well, yes, I suppose..." She was being much too fastidious with those sandwiches.

"That is very loving. To starve himself of sleep and food as he does... very devoted... certainly passionate."

"Mrs. Hudson, what are you getting at?"

"Oh, my! Dear child, the tea is getting cold! We must take it out now!" And with that, Martha Hudson marched out of the room to deposit a tray in front of my supposedly perfect match. How Dr. Watson underrated that gray-headed force of nature, I will never know.


	12. Moonlight

**Moonlight**

It was one of those nights that seem a mere extension of the daylight in which the mind refuses to silence itself. I glanced at my empty coffee cup, picked up my spectacles from the spare room's bedside table, and sighed in frustration. I would normally turn to my books at this point; indeed, I would have had it not been for the headache I had developed from this very exercise. Instead, I pulled on my boots and headed for the door to the Sussex downs. Perhaps a rush of cool air would increase my appreciation of a warm bed.

"Out for a walk in the moonlight?" asked a slightly muffled voice. I turned to find the gaunt silhouette of Holmes contrasting against glow; his darkened face was surely smiling.

"Ah, good evening, Holmes. Whatever are you doing up at such an hour?"

"I could ask the same of you, Russell, though it is obvious that your disconcerting coffee consumption is the culprit. I could not sleep either, I suppose." He yawned and I quirked a suspicious eyebrow at him.

"Shall we?" I asked with a slight smirk; that man had the hearing of a hound when it suited him.

"We shall," he replied and we walked arm-in-arm across the countryside at an ungodly hour more suited for the nocturnal activities of woodland animals than for two shabby figures in bed clothes and boots.


	13. Novel

**Novel**

"Holmes?" I called, adjusting my wire-rimmed glasses squarely on my nose and keeping my eyes glued the pages of the secular book I held in my hands. So help me, I had idiotically promised Veronica that I would take a look at the romance novel she bought me for my birthday. The shuffling of footsteps and clanging of beakers from the laboratory continued without a pause; Holmes was hearing-distance away. "Holmes! I know you can hear me!"

Another sound joined the cacophony coming from the adjoining room. "Russell, I am in the middle of a very delicate experiment. So, I would be much obliged if you kindly held your tongue until I pour the sulfuric acid into..."

"Holmes, have you ever been in love?" I asked abruptly, deliberately focusing my eyes on the unread words before me. The noise stopped and was followed by Holmes' footsteps coming toward me. I squinted through my glasses to make it appear as though I had not heard his approach.

"What?" he asked with a nonchalant tone, making a point not to reveal the fear behind his eyes.

"You heard me, Holmes. Have you ever been in love?"

I watched a shaking hand search his pocket for a cigarette and find it empty. He cursed under his breath and glared at me.

"No."

There was no smart response, no biting wit... nothing but the fear and pain behind his eyes and a curt answer. Holmes turned his tense back to me and went back to the laboratory. We did not talk for the remainder of the evening. I thought, though, I heard the soft, bittersweet sound of a violin in my dreams that night.


	14. Undoing

**Undoing**

**Holmes**

The wilderness is vast, but there is evidence to suggest that our prospects are near. I have always prided myself in my ability to draw out those important trifles and to realize those commonplace occurrences imperative to the execution of justice. I do not regard the death of Mikhail the Druse a subtlety and, yet, fear that this investigation is proving far more difficult than I had originally imagined. To my credit, a good deal of my difficulty is resulted from our Arab escorts. Russell and I are having quite a time dodging cartography expeditions and proving ourselves to these men who can see nothing but our blue eyes. Russell has had more than her fair share of abuse; I find it most discouraging that she has not yet spoken out against such oppression. Such a suppression of emotion will surely culminate into some sort of violence involving knives or fists. Ah, Russell... yes, our guides best watch themselves closely.

Russell, safe and vulnerable in the moonlight, sleeps beside me now as our circumstances do not yet allow for additional tents. I am struck by the contrast between the quietude of this individual and the fiery liveliness that is her nature. She is so like me, Russell is. My passion has since been dampened by time and its corresponding experience; Russell is fresh, testing the depths of her mind, churning through the philosophies of men, and stomping on new grounds. It is regretful that such energy be spent on theology; conjecture based upon conjecture is no basis for a degree. But, alas, she sleeps in peace and satisfaction. I, on the other hand, lie awake and write the words of an insomniac by candlelight. This "case", if I can call it such with so little divulged information, is not troubling me. I do not have enough data to seek a conclusion. It would be a waste of time and energy. I keep odd hours, it is true, but I highly doubt that a night's rest would be unbeneficial. No, Russell intrigues me. It is Russell who keeps me awake. This girl, this - I must face it – woman, has changed me.

I have always been an independent creature. Even with Watson, dear old chap, I was never truly dependent. I was never affected. And, yet, with Russell, I fear undoing. Ah... how hypocritical; I sound more dramatic than Watson could ever dream me to be. No, I would not be "undone", I suppose. But... I think I might be affected. And, Lord knows, the mind should not be affected by the heart. I must stop gazing upon her raven hair, the slightly surprised look upon her face, and the space between us. I must disenchant myself before admiration and interest grow into...

By God, she is but a girl, no matter what she insists both verbally and non-verbally.

I must sleep and hope that it is without dreams... affecting dreams... undoing dreams...

**Russell**

I cannot imagine what the deuce is so important to Holmes that he must stay awake after a day's worth of traveling with a half-healed back. It sounds as if he is writing and I have never known the man to do such a thing in the four years that I have been with him. Perhaps he is writing a note of some sort or working through his thoughts on paper. I do wonder, though, since I feel his eyes upon me. No, what a stupid thought! His mind is on the case. How could I imagine differently? Well, there is no need to disturb him. I would not want to affect his thought process and throw him off. There is no need to undo him simply because I am curious.


	15. Worry

**Worry**

The darkness swirled around me and gently caressed my newly emancipated femininity. I silently wondered how many of my ancestors before me laid beneath the ethereal glow of this moon and pondered of their own history.

A low, clear cough sounded in the distance and I cautiously tread the water to face the owner of the distinctly male sound approaching from the shore. "Holmes?"

"Yes, Russell." It was both a response to my enquiry and a confirmation of identity. I sighed and allowed the salt to lift me from the navy waters; the unusually still moment pervaded in the silence. I decided that there was no need to disturb the magic with conversation; words and sentences learned in the past few weeks had left me with a rather great disliking for language.

"Nevermind."

The distant silhouette nodded in both understanding and agreement. We, two nude figures in an expanse of black, remained in quiet contemplation for a few moments before I looked up to notice that the profile of my mentor had considerably grown in size. The rippling of the still sea continued, roaring like thunder in my ears, until I could no longer breathe. The land had made me overly cautious, even of the man I had spent four years with, learned with, and shared with.

"Do not worry, Russell. I have no intention of coming any closer."

I was eternally grateful for the disguise of night as I was distinctly aware of the heat in my cheeks.

"I was not worried, Holmes," I said, my voice not quite as steady as I had wished it._ So much for a relaxing, non-verbal evening, _I thought to myself "I was not worried at all."

"Why, then, have you turned that particular shade of crimson?" The revoltingly omniscient smile radiated.

"How could you possibly know--?" And then I realized the inappropriate nature of our conversation and froze. _Why would Holmes ask such a question? What was he suggesting?_

No, I was not initially worried. I was not worried at all. There was another troubling emotion in its place that I had decided not to acknowledge and that Holmes had knowingly brought into focus.


	16. Culture

**Culture**

_This is merely an act, Russell. Please control your senses before you make an utter fool of yourself. _Grey eyes peeled away the layers of dirtied turban obscuring my wonderment and a twinge of amusement played upon the left corner of his bearded mouth. The silence was utterly consuming and I was distinctly aware of the nerves of my left palm. _Silly, stupid Russell! _I chided. _This is only Holmes. Why should you be affected by such a simple, innocent gesture? _I knew the answer, though, and continued walking down the rustic path with Holmes's singularly Arab hand in mine.


	17. February

**February**

She walked down the famed street with her inadequately-gloved hands stuffed within her pockets and an old bowler covering her eyes. It was a cold, brittle, February morning and the sky was a radiant shade of blue. Oxford held nothing but musky books and Holmes was away on some rare commission. Loneliness has a time and a place; she did not want to pursue him this day. And, yet, here she was on the street where he once lived at an hour in which the majority of London opted for their beds. Her feet betrayed her purpose and she followed.

The stroll was not uninteresting. She noticed an antique lamp standing outside an unusually well-kept, Victorian building. Four gold markings gleamed above the doorway and she did not think of him.

She steadily made her way down the street and past vendors setting up their places of business. The disguised youth past the tobacconist's where she observed two unknown gentlemen, one stocky and the other lean, talking with the mustachioed man behind the counter. She smelt that familiar aroma and did not think of him.

A cold wind threatened the battered hat and she raised a pale hand to secure it against her encased locks. With the wind came an old-fashioned hansom operated by a dark figure with a whip. The cabbie paused for a moment, as if anticipating her summons, and looked down at her with pure, gray eyes. She looked up and almost thought of him.

The daylight gathered warmth and Russell shed a layer of clothing. She stopped to check her reflection in the window of a vegetarian restaurant before her eyes caught a glimpse of two people standing across the the street. The couple gazed into a jewelry store window as the girl's cheeks blushed prettily and the man smiled proudly. He pointed to a ring; the girl laughed.

And she thought of him.


	18. Impressions

**Impressions**

I vaguely remembered walking up this aisle before, though under what circumstances I could hardly imagine; I remained fiercely and quite unfortunately for my dear aunt, whose name I feel no need to mention, devoted to the Jewish faith through my insistent need to wander the downs during her Sunday mass. I felt I could appreciate the gifts of the Divine much more clearly without a constant stream of complaints about my singularly vertical approach to growth and its affects on the cost of my wardrobe. I belatedly recalled that the woman's good and constructed Protestant upbringing would not have allowed me to venture within one-hundred feet of a synagogue.

The irony of my location could not be avoided. Here I was, dressed within a capsule of silk and lace and within the gaudy structure that represented all that I rejected from my childhood; the most amazing was the fact that I was not dragged kicking and screaming into the church. I came of my own accord and was not investigating a murder, blackmail, kidnapping, robbery, or any other unfortunate event. It was positively shocking.

"Russell, you look lovely." Even now, despite the presence of a priest and the few close and seemingly familial friends, such whispered words sounded odd and foreign on his lips; I nearly jumped at the words. "Nervous, then, dear wife?" I looked up at my mentor, friend, and, quite unexpectedly, love to observe an ornery smirk contorting his features.

"No, but I am distinctly aware of the reasons for the modern aversion of the corset."

"Quite disappointing, my dearest Russell. I would imagine an enlightened woman as yourself would object to such devices."

I raised an eyebrow at him and became suddenly conscious that I was delaying the proceedings of my own wedding. "You know I cannot refuse Mrs. Hudson, Holmes. She absolutely glowed when I put this thing on."

"She was not the only one, Mary."

I stopped at the sound of my name, not because of its unfamiliarity, but because of the strange naturalness of his voice and my oddly immediate acceptance of it. The steel gray irises steadily approached until I could no longer see the distinction between the two points... or between anything else for that matter.

I was under the distinct impression that I heard applause as the priest before us choked on something intangible and skipped straight to "you may kiss the bride."


	19. Anniversary

**Anniversary**

Holmes and I strolled along the downs in silent contentment. It was a lovely spring day and my boots needed to be broken in for future winter expeditions. The muddied ground proved the perfect excuse to leave the Hebrew translation in a solitary state upon the table. Indeed, Holmes' offer of exercise was heartily welcomed.

The man suddenly stopped in his tracks, forcing my unaware self into the back of him. I nearly exchanged greetings with a mud puddle before Holmes' arm shot out to help me regain my balance. I forced a smile, adjusted my glasses, and tried to calm my instantaneous compulsion to defend myself.

"Russell, do you know where we are?" My husband pinned me with a most penetrating gaze that I felt could not pertain to the sheep grazing in the distance. There was nothing terribly remarkable about this particular piece of Sussex.

"I observe that we are in the middle of nowhere," I said in mock intellectualism. Holmes let out a chuckle, but the intensity of the moment could neither be dissolved nor explained.

"Ah, Russell, I have trained you well. But, alas, I was looking for something a bit more definite. The fact is that this piece of land is not 'nowhere'. It is a very significant 'somewhere'."

One of the sheep moaned in the distance and I wondered what the deuce the man was talking about. He was, indeed, serious; I looked around the spot to try and discern its importance.

The place was beautiful, of course. We were about three miles out from the cottage and the air smelt of pollen and grass. The wind was blowing through Holmes' peppered hair in a mesmerizing way and I could not help but capitulate. This situation presented nothing to me but a vague sense of deja-vu.

And, then, a miracle happened: Holmes bent down to tie his shoes.

"Holmes!" I cried, laughing and pulling him up from the obviously fastened shoelace, "Is this where...?"

"Yes," he said with an unexpectedly dazzling smile. "Happy anniversary, my dearest Russell."

"And to you, Holmes," I replied, noticing the space between us decreasing at a disconcerting rate. "May you always be my refuge and may I always be the girl who noticed the bees."

The return trip was rather longer than the initial due to certain distractions produced by the wind; I arrived home and opened up my long-forgotten Virgil to inhale the scent of our first meeting.


	20. Drink

**Drink**

I was vaguely aware of Holmes standing over my shoulder with a sweetened cup of coffee in his hand and promptly stretched out my arm to retrieve the odious stuff; no need to prolong the inevitable and insufferable nursing soon to follow. "Holmes, if you are to be so insistent in stuffing sweets down my throat, I suggest that you offer me something more substantial than diluted coffee."

Holmes ignored my hand and set the cup onto a nearby table before stretching his lean self upon the neighboring deck chair. I turned my face slightly away from him and studied the waves.

"Russell." His voice was infuriatingly calm and I considered my ability to throw him over the ledge. "I offered you eggs this morning and you refused me. What am I to do? Coffee is all that you will take."

_Ridiculous_; _I had been offered no such meal._ "Not, my dear Holmes, when it has been invaded by sugar and is barely palatable."

"I used but one lump, Russell. You must take something. I have no intention of returning to Sussex with my wife in a coffin."

"How morbid, Holmes. Do you intend to murder me?" I smiled and squinted into the sun as I felt his annoyance beat down upon my skin.

"Take the coffee." I felt his eyes pierce me and broke.

"I do not need a nursemaid, Holmes!"

"No, Russell, you need a husband. Now, my wife… drink."

I took a gulp, cringed at the liquid's strength, and felt Holmes's cotton shirt soak with unpromising tears. I listened to the man's heartbeat and decided it was not to be an enjoyable boat ride.


End file.
